Aftermath
by AccioJosh
Summary: A probable one-shot about the aftermath of the war; Voldemort is dead and Harry's in a coma. Ron is trying to save his best mate, but no one knows what to do.


_Aftermath  
  
_The surrounding ruin gave an ominous feel to what had once felt barren and empty. He remembered when they had first entered the chamber, and how everything had gone so quickly; the room had just been a room. Now, Voldemort's body lay crumpled a few feet away and Dumbledore was just outside, his features forever trapped in an expression of surprise at having been caught off-guard, something Ron supposed almost never happened to the ancient wizard. Hermione was here, still alive even through all the welts, bruises and cuts all over her face, the broken arm dangingly helplessly at her left side. She had said she was just glad they hadn't gotten her wand arm.  
  
Harry lay in an unconscious heap before him, Ron's hand currently rubbing along his best mate's temple, brushing the sooty hair off of the scar. What had once been a slight imperfection in the smooth skin of Harry's face was now a festering wound that seemed almost fresh, even after sixteen years. It was bleeding, and Ron wondered if it would heal properly this time, the thought only fleeting as his mind caught up with the _throb-throb_ of the scar as blood passed through and behind it, rushing to the dark-haired teen's brain to try and keep the repair process underway.  
  
"We shouldn't move him," Hermione said softly. Ron realized she was saying it because he had suddenly pulled Harry into his arms and was holding his limp body like he used to hold his puffskein as a child, before Fred had stolen it. She stopped her protestations as Ron began to cry, his face broken with the stress and pain that he'd been holding in for the past several days. Harry was broken.

* * *

"Mr. Weasley. Ms. Granger." The wizard greeting them was non-descript, one of those fellows you immediately forgot the moment they were out of sight. This is why Ron can't think of his face even only an hour later when he tries to remember, to burn the memories of this whole week into his brain. The man tries to help them with Harry, but both Hermione and Ron immediately shoo him off and disappear out of the small room they'd portkeyed into. "Your car is waiting at the front," he offers as they depart, heading for the exit.  
  
Inside the car, Ron watches Harry's shallow breathing, the healing spells having cleared his face of all its scratches and bruising and even curing all the internal bleeding and broken bones, but still the boy clung to his coma. Ron cried silently again, cursing himself for being this pathetic in the face of everything he had been so stoic for just a day ago, but allowed himself this grieving and the worry that his friend might never wake up.  
  
"Madame Pomfrey says he'll be fine," she says, breaking into his thoughts. He looks up at her and smiles, trying to assure her that he's fine even through the mist of tears in his eyes. She is surprisingly clear-faced, also healed and looking as though they hadn't just fought hundreds of death eaters and the dark lord and won in the face of all things impossible. She didn't seem affected by Harry laying in a broken heap, mended but still broken on the seat opposite them as the car rushed off to wherever they were going to hide until the media frenzy was over. "Ron."

* * *

"'Ere's the key. O'course you don't really need a key, doya?" The keeper winked at them, apparently a squib. He ran a muggle bar; a fat, greasy man that reminded Ron of the barkeep at the Hogs Head. He obviously felt he was special to have Harry Potter in his hotel. Such an honour.  
  
When he was gone, Ron immediately brought Harry to the room with the biggest, most comfortable bed and tucked him in. Hermione watched from the doorway as her boyfriend took off their best mate's clothes, down to his boxers, and slid him under the sheets. When he removed his own clothes and climbed in next to Harry, she said nothing and disappeared from the room.  
  
He awoke in the middle of the night to find Hermione, naked breasts pressing on his back, had joined them. He was half on top of Harry, his erection poking into his mate's thigh whilst his girlfriend stroked the naked flesh along his midsection. Feeling sickened at the idea of being aroused while Harry wasn't even able to wake up, Ron turned to face her and curled up into her embrace, hiding his erection in bent legs and painful positions. He cried hard, suddenly; sobs for Dean, Ginny, Fred and his dad all escaping him and leaving a pool of tears on her breasts. She cooed and rubbed his hair, kissing his forehead. "It's alright," she said softly, just like his mum used to when he had a nightmare. "Everything is fine now." He wondered if it would be fine; if they had really died for a good cause. What kind of madman does this to people? What kind of madman can kill so easily and feel nothing in the morning?

* * *

"He's awake," she annouced excitedly.  
  
Ron jumped to his feet and ran into the room to see Harry looking groggy and confused. Sitting next to him, taking Harry's hand into his own firm grasp, he leant forward and kissed him. "Harry," he said breathlessly, his head aching with the rush of blood from his rapidly pounding heart. Harry smiled at him, confused and barely alert, and mouthed 'Ron' before closing his eyes and wincing at a pain in his temple. "It's alright, Harry," Ron said quickly. "He's dead! It's over!"  
  
Hermione was behind him now, her hands on his shoulders rubbing them gently as he caressed Harry's hands. It wasn't but a few moments before they both realized he was gone under again, and Ron cried for what seemed to be the millionth time in only twenty-four hours.

* * *

"It doesn't look good," the mediwizard said softly, putting his wand away as he moved over to the minibar to pour himself a glass of water from the jug. "I think he may have exerted too much of himself."  
  
"There must be _something_," Ron insisted. "We're _wizards_!"  
  
"He has to come out of it on his own, lad. Unfortunately magic can't fix everything."  
  
Ron gave him a disbelieving look before storming into the bedroom and slamming the door. He flopped angrilly down on the bed, grabbing Harry up into his arms and scowling against the tears. "You better bloody wake up," he said roughly. "I won't let you die on me now." In a bit of frustration, Ron shook Harry. He shook him hard, enough that he could hear Harry's teeth gnashing together with the force of it. "Wake up, Harry."  
  
After a while, he settled his mate back on the bed and climbed up to lay with him again. He had always thought that this time, the time shortly after the victory they would all be in a pub celebrating. What good was being the best mate of the famous Harry Potter, who had just defeated the dark lord, if they couldn't use that fame to sneak in a bit of underaged drinking? This, sitting around crying as the man who won fought for his life, was not what he had expected and was just not fair.  
  
"Wake up," he repeated softly. 


End file.
